cutthroat world of business, I have to say, if this were an editorial office, there would be no way I would have gotten through my first day walking in with the spoils of a shopping spree an hour and forty-five minutes late. My firing papers would have been filed before I even arrived. And while they had me filling them out, someone would probably have taken my Clergerie platforms as part of the money I somehow owed them for arriving late and wasting their time. But here I am, being escorted with my own personal porter to the ID station as 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 75
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though I am Julia Roberts in that scene in Pretty Woman where she’s just had that divine shopping spree and whirlwind makeover.
(I briefly toy with the idea of purchasing a wide-brimmed straw hat of my own.)
Everything is so organized and professional here. You get your ID
processed immediately. That is, after showing about five forms of ID, and going through all of these security checks, which run just shy of inquiring how many sexual partners you’ve had, the last time you’ve gone to the bathroom, and how often you fight with your mother.
Unfortunately it is not a clip-on, and when I ask the ID man if there is a possibility they can order a clip for me, he thinks this is a joke and begins going off into hysterics.
“That’s a good one. ‘Can you order one for me?’ Ha!” He elbows John (who has barely looked me in the face yet) in the ribs, and it looks like my waiflike coworker may actually be punctured from the jab.
But my picture looks great (and I swear I have never looked good in a picture before—when people view my license they normally make a face like they’ve just seen a hideous rotting corpse) and at least I have a beautiful Gucci wallet to stow it in. (Serious splurge: still not paid off.)
We make our way up twenty-six flights and for some reason, into the stairwell and down one flight, then through the mostly open-format office strewn with cubicles, divided with horribly un-fashionable colored cloth modular walls in maroons and grays, which in any other spot would probably seem depressing. But here, just as a slicked-back ponytail and toned-down makeup can actually highlight a boisterous ensemble on the runway, the drab colors just make the men seem to pop out even more. I note, once again, that women are sparse. I do catch the random “Happy Birthday, Tiffany!” sign here, and the telltale candy dish there, but the tokens 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 76
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of female life are few. And those women that I do regard are in suits or androgynous pants and tops of the Express variety. And even that isn’t enough to stop me from feeling like part of one, big happy family with each and every one of them. These are my people. I am drunk with being part of something big, (with lots of men involved). I am mentally taking note of each and every detail for my article.
My cubicle is right outside of Tom’s office and right next to John’s cubicle. Although it does have those maroon walls, I am sure I can work some magic and transform it into an adorable respite. It’s got plenty of space for me to hang things on, and lots of great storage bins and work surfaces. I wish I could come to a space like this to do my regular job. With all of these people working, and the distance from my bed, I’m sure I’d get so much more work done. It’s buzzing here, with telephones ringing, people going to the watercooler, typing away, and drawers opening and closing. It’s like a real office in here. So inspiring! So lively! So, well, filled with men! Now, I know I sound like a little kid who’s never seen the big working world before, but that’s kind of how I feel, since I have been holed up in my apartment for so long. I don’t think I realized how far removed from society I had been. I don’t think I will ever feel the need to sit on my couch and
D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 75
though I am Julia Roberts in that scene in Pretty Woman where she’s just had that divine shopping spree and whirlwind makeover.
(I briefly toy with the idea of purchasing a wide-brimmed straw hat of my own.)
Everything is so organized and professional here. You get your ID
processed immediately. That is, after showing about five forms of ID, and going through all of these security checks, which run just shy of inquiring how many sexual partners you’ve had, the last time you’ve gone to the bathroom, and how often you fight with your mother.
Unfortunately it is not a clip-on, and when I ask the ID man if there is a possibility they can order a clip for me, he thinks this is a joke and begins going off into hysterics.
“That’s a good one. ‘Can you order one for me?’ Ha!” He elbows John (who has barely looked me in the face yet) in the ribs, and it looks like my waiflike coworker may actually be punctured from the jab.
But my picture looks great (and I swear I have never looked good in a picture before—when people view my license they normally make a face like they’ve just seen a hideous rotting corpse) and at least I have a beautiful Gucci wallet to stow it in. (Serious splurge: still not paid off.)
We make our way up twenty-six flights and for some reason, into the stairwell and down one flight, then through the mostly open-format office strewn with cubicles, divided with horribly un-fashionable colored cloth modular walls in maroons and grays, which in any other spot would probably seem depressing. But here, just as a slicked-back ponytail and toned-down makeup can actually highlight a boisterous ensemble on the runway, the drab colors just make the men seem to pop out even more. I note, once again, that women are sparse. I do catch the random “Happy Birthday, Tiffany!” sign here, and the telltale candy dish there, but the tokens 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 76
76
D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y
of female life are few. And those women that I do regard are in suits or androgynous pants and tops of the Express variety. And even that isn’t enough to stop me from feeling like part of one, big happy family with each and every one of them. These are my people. I am drunk with being part of something big, (with lots of men involved). I am mentally taking note of each and every detail for my article.
My cubicle is right outside of Tom’s office and right next to John’s cubicle. Although it does have those maroon walls, I am sure I can work some magic and transform it into an adorable respite. It’s got plenty of space for me to hang things on, and lots of great storage bins and work surfaces. I wish I could come to a space like this to do my regular job. With all of these people working, and the distance from my bed, I’m sure I’d get so much more work done. It’s buzzing here, with telephones ringing, people going to the watercooler, typing away, and drawers opening and closing. It’s like a real office in here. So inspiring! So lively! So, well, filled with men! Now, I know I sound like a little kid who’s never seen the big working world before, but that’s kind of how I feel, since I have been holed up in my apartment for so long. I don’t think I realized how far removed from society I had been. I don’t think I will ever feel the need to sit on my couch and
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